Mega Man: A Legend Begins
by Dr.Universe
Summary: This is the beginning of a new Mega Man story, set in a darker world, where Robotics, nor Artificial Intelligences, have advanced to the degree displayed in the games. Instead, cybernetics has flourished. Intended for Older Readers.


Forward

This story is based off of settings and characters created by Capcom and Keiji Inafune**. **I claim no ownership of these characters, although the setting and story is (mostly) original, this is merely a work of fun.

Despite this being a fan fiction about the Mega Man universe, this story is not set within the standard conventional universe. It follows neither the Robot Time line, nor the Network/AI Time Line. I simply ask that you keep this in mind, as this story is darker and more derivative than others.

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Stage One

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*Present Day, 200X*

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A man stood in the rain outside of an old apartment building. A cigarette hung from his lips, embers burning faintly among the dark, crying sky. The dark blue trench coat upon his shoulders was soaked through and through, as was the matching fedora perched on his head.

He flexed his hand, made a tight fist and gazed at the decrepit old door. The metallic limb creaked in the cold and rain, gears and cogs grinding and pulling against one another in grating dissonance. There was a sigh, and he took a drag from the shrinking cigarette. Metal hand plucked it from his lips, crushed it, then cast it to the ground. His eyes followed it and his foot ground the thin cylinder into the floor.

Looking up he took a step forward, the sound of gears, whirling faintly, accompanying him like an unwanted shadow. One hand was placed on the door. The wood was old and decaying, the hinges weak and rusted. The man took a step back, sighed, and then kicked down the door.

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+200X, Two Weeks Ago+

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The day started out like any other. The sun rose, the clouds flew through the sky, and everyone went to work on schedule. Rock Light was no exception. The sun seeped in through his window and, with the aid of an alarm clock, roused him from his slumber. He carried out his morning routine and, by 8:20 AM he was out the door, making his way to Light Labs, a cigarette burning faintly in his hand.

Fifteen minutes later he arrived and was greeted by his father, Dr. Thomas Light. "You're late." he said, warm eyes peering out from beneath a furrowed brow. He was wearing a white lab coat, and a blue and white polka-dot tie. He was slight rotund, with a great white beard about his face.

Rock took a drag from the cigarette, smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Did Roll get you that tie?" Dr. Light nodded, adding in, "Yes, it was a gift for the prize ceremony. But that hardly matters now, we've got a day's worth of testing to get done. Go get changed and meet me in the lab, son." At this, Dr. Light wandered off into the facility speaking to a few colleagues and workers. Rock sighed and clocked in.

It was a typical day. A day of running tests on the new robotic limbs and components. A day of stress tests and re-calculations, a day of mundane work and repetition. Around noon, the testing was halted for lunch. Rock and Dr. Light sat at a table, discussing various problems encountered through out the day. Until Dr. Light broke the monotony.

"I'm taking the rest of the day off, Rock."

"So we're done for the day, then?" Dr. Light shook his head, and responded in turn. "No, you still have tests to run. I have... other business to attend to. I'm leaving the facility in your care, think you can handle it?"

Rock sighed, took a puff from his cigarette, then shrugged. "Hey, what's the worst that could happen? A machine breaks down? I think I can handle it, dad."

"That's what I like to hear, just be careful." This ended their conversation, as Dr. Light stood and left. Rock finished his lunch alone, crushed the cigarette and returned to work. The day continued on as normal, until the explosion.

* * *

**

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It was as he thought, and the door fell easily, splintering at the lock and doorknob. It was no match for his robotic leg, and the strength thereof. Perhaps, though, he had gone a bit overboard, he was still unused to the power of these new limbs.

The place was a mess, clearly abandoned by most tenants and forgotten by the neighbors. Parts of the walls were rotted through, termites eating the old wood and plaguing them with holes. Rusted pipes had snapped in places, allowing water to pool and stagnate on the ground. It hardly seemed the place for anyone to live, but then the Butcher wasn't just anyone.

The man paused for a bit, took in the surrounding, and then brought his left hand to his right wrist. Both were cold, unfeeling, pieces of metal built to replace his real ones but they each hid a sinister secret. He twisted the wrist and unscrewed the hand, the familiar shape of a gun-barrel was revealed, concealed within the arm amidst whirling gears and wires.

He pocketed the now free hand, checked the surrounding, and then proceeded on. There was little, if any, evidence to suggest anyone lived here. Each room was as old and decrepit as the next, full of rotting furniture and time-decayed walls. Each floor proved to be the same as the last, some more rotten than others, some more dangerous to traverse. But he pressed on, intent on finding that fiend, the Cut Man.

It was on the seventh floor that he saw the signs of life. Of all the rooms, one was clean. The walls were white, sterile and well kept. The furniture, though spartan at best, was clearly new. It was an eerie sight, like walking into a hospital for the first time, made all the more uncomfortable by the blood stain on the ceiling tile. It was the only spot unlike the rest of the room and indicated where he would head next.

Before he moved upstairs, before he continued on with this... this mission, he stopped, mechanical hand shaking. This was insanity, this was a job for the police to take care of, not a Lab Assistant barely out of the hospital. He lit a cigarette and paced down the hallway, his nerves slowly calming. With no interruptions yet, he finished the thing off, crushed it at his feet and opened the stairway door. There was no telling what he would find.

The first thing he noticed, the first thing anyone would notice upon setting foot on the eighth floor, was the overwhelming smell. The smell of decay and rot, the smell of death, overpowered everything. He nearly vomited, and fell to his knees.

The attack ripped the lab apart, destroying most of the facility. It had started in the testing labs and spread from there. Fires broke out soon after, followed by more explosions. In the end, all employees had been killed or severely injured. Among them was Dr. Light's son.

He had been caught unaware, running a simple test on a newest robotic limb. It was supposed to be adaptive, supposed to change depending on the situation and evolve based on prior experiences. A prototype had been tested and proved successful. Unfortunately, the tester had vanished and was presumed dead.

When the explosions started, Rock had been alone. The initial blast threw his body to the floor, rendering him dazed. The second ripped a hole in the testing area, and the third collapsed a wall on him. Many assumed he was lost, taken in the following fires. He was found two days later, barely alive.

His limbs had been rendered useless, broken beyond all repair and many internal organs were beyond conventional medicines. It was fortunate, then, that Dr. Light was his father. The robotics genius took it upon himself to replace the missing limbs and organs with the newest parts his laboratory had created. The operation took several days. Rock woke several days later to a distraught Dr. Light.

Among his first words were "Sorry, dad." Dr. Light burst into tears, repeating to him over and over that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have prevented it. They later learned that Dr. Wily had been behind the explosions, along with some questionable colleagues of his. Unfortunately, neither the police, nor Dr. Light could prove his involvement.

Several days later, able to walk and move again, Rock spoke to his father, voicing his disgust. "Someone has to do something! He can't get away with this." Dr. Light shook his head and replied. "There's nothing we can do, son. We can't prove anything, the police can't do anything."

"Then I'll do something!"

Dr. Light was shocked, his son had only barely recovered from his injuries. "No, you can't. You nearly died, damn it!"

"Dad, I have to do this. If I don't, no one will." Rock was adamant in his position, and it was clear he would do this regardless of his father's position. He merely wanted acceptance, some form of approval. But Dr. Light shook his head, "No. You can't. Remember what happened to Him, do you want to end up like that too?"

"I won't end up like He did, I'll come back. I won't die, dad."

* * *

Those words echoed in Rock's head now, his promise to his father. He regained his composure and stood, then checked his arm. There were only three shots, all his father would give him. He had to make them count.

Pressing on, further down the hallway, the smell became overwhelming and the faint sounds of metal scratching against something began to fill his ears. He had come to the room above the white one, the source of the blood stain on the ceiling. The man braced himself and opened the door, but he was simply not prepared, no one could be.

The smell instantly overtook his sense. Eyes teared up as his nostril's burned and his throat heaved. He simply could not contain himself this time. Vomit came, whether he wanted it or not, and splattered on the ground. His recovery was quick, but this was not a good thing. He could now see the room as it was, a gruesome bastion of gore.

Severed limbs and body parts were strewn among the room, some nailed to walls, others hung from the ceiling and still others simple littered on the floor. As expected, floor covered the ground. Some of it was wet, gathered in pools where the floor sagged, but most was dry and caked. The seen alone brought another fit of heaving and vomiting. A voice called out.

"Oh, come now. It's really not that bad." The voice came from a man standing in the corner, standing in front of the top half of a man with the ribs cut out and entrails hanging out the bottom. The incisions were perfect, flawless. This man had to be a doctor of some sort... or a butcher. He turned to face Rock, cleaning a pair of scissors with a white cloth, a smile on his face.

He was of slightly above height, but bald and with large, protruding ears. He wore large orange gloves and boots, seemingly made out of rubber, as well as a white coat. Blood covered it in random splotches, and there was a smeared hand print on the side. "Fortunately for you, you won't have to stomach it for long. Seeing as you've discovered my little... hobby," he smirked, turning the large pair of surgical scissors over in his hands, "I'll have to kill you." He charged.

Rock was not prepared for this level of violence and was taken off guard. This man was taller than he was, and possibly stronger, he had to haul these bodies up eight flights of stairs. He was quicker too and it wasn't long before Rock felt the sting of those scissors embedded in his shoulder. The daze wore off quickly after this, his promise flooding back into his head.

"I won't die!" He screamed at the man, his left fist rising up to deliver a powerful blow. The Cut Man was surprised, stumbled back and brought his hand to his face. Blood poured from his nose, and a laugh came from his throat. It was a horrible laugh, one lacking any sanity or morals. A maniacal, high pitched cackle fit only for evil men. It seemed his mind snapped at the sight of his own blood. He fled into the next room. Rock followed.

The man was quick, and by the time Rock entered the next room, he had already moved on. Each room was a disturbing as the first. Body parts littered on the floors. Bones, organs, piles of flesh, it hardly mattered. Unable to catch the man, Rock waited in the third room. There was a window to his side, and a hallway to his back. He was confident that Cut Man would come from that way.

After a few minutes, he was correct. The man came charging down the hallway, knife in hand and a face full of insanity. Rock raised his right arm and shot him. The bullet burst through his chest, through a lung, and exited in a messy spray of blood. Cut Man fell to his knees. He was not allowed to rest and Rock quickly wrapped his left arm around his throat. Through the window he went, held only by that mechanical arm.

"Tell me where Dr. Wily is!" to this, Cut Man merely laughed, his head rolling around on his shoulder. Rock shot him in the leg. Pain seemed to do little to the man, his body squirming and bleeding all about. The metal hand tightened it's grasp, cut the air off to the man, and threatened to crush his larynx.

"Tell me, damn it!" Cut Man laughed a horrible laugh, gasped for air and coughed blood on his captor. "My friends will find you … you Mega Man. They'll find you, and make you hurt. They'll find your family and hurt them too." He laughed again, and smiled. His teeth were covered in blood, he was as good as dead by now. Rock didn't care. "Tell me you sick f..." before he could finish, Cut Man lashed out with a conceal knife.

A gunshot rang out, mechanical hand released it's grip, and Cut Man fell eight stories to his death. With a blood splattered face, Rock re-attached his hand, lit a cigarette, and began the long walk home.


End file.
